


Self-Indulgence

by Nonymos



Series: In the Dead of Night [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Abusive BDSM, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Fucked-up moral values, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted to write Bakshi taking it up the ass okay, Interrogation, M/M, Mindfuck, PWP, Porn With Plot, Psychological Torture, Reverse Brainwashing, Sexual Torture, Torture, Whipping, Whump, abusive D/s dynamics, but horribly twistedly so, dark!Clint, psychopath!Clint, with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3498194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton excels at two things. Archery and—something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, the title of the fic says it all. I'm pretty sure no one will even read this because the pairing is so weird. Apparently, I'm the only one around here thirsty as hell for some banged-up Bakshi.
> 
> Anyway, if you've stumbled upon this by some weird twist of fate, enjoy :D Spoilers for Agents of SHIELD S02E11, except not really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

”Oh. Hey,” said Skye, unsure.

Coulson looked up and froze. The man next to him didn’t—he’d never started moving in the first place. He was standing in the dark, just on the edge of the one lamp Coulson had turned on. It wasn’t Hunter. It couldn’t be Mack or Fitz.

His face was hidden in the shadows, but Skye could feel him looking at her.

“Hey,” Coulson finally said. “Trouble sleeping?”

His tone was casual and his expression as bland as ever, but Skye knew him well enough by now. She could tell he wished she hadn’t seen the man in the shadows.

“Sorta,” she said. In truth, the vibration under her skin wouldn’t let her sleep. “So, do you want me to go, or…?”

Coulson sighed, then pressed his eyelids shut for a second. “No, it’s okay. He’s just—” He stopped himself. “Just a friend who came by to give me a hand.”

“Didn’t think you had many friends left,” Skye said. “Not outside of SHIELD, anyway.”

She stepped into the shadows as well, and her eyes immediately adjusted to the difference. She couldn’t help gaping a little. “Holy _shit._ You’re—”

“Clint,” said Hawkeye.

His lips were twisted into a half-smile. “It’s all off the record. Like Phil said.” He was watching her with strange intensity, as though spying her reaction to something which hadn’t yet happened. “Just helping out.”

She was a little floored—it was Clint fucking Barton, for fuck’s sake. She had never been so close to an Avenger before. It was about the last thing she expected, and she glanced at Coulson. “Helping out with what?”

He winced. She could tell, sometimes, he still wanted to protect her as though blood had not yet stained her. “Bakshi.” The admission seemed to loosen something in him, and he started talking a bit more freely. “We aren’t getting anywhere with him. We have to make sure we’re not giving Talbot more than he can chew.” His lips quivered. “And he can’t chew much.”

Skye looked back towards Hawkeye. He hadn’t moved at all, and she suddenly realized how unnaturally he was holding himself, how dark they’d kept the room and how low they’d been talking. Coulson’s words sank in and she understood exactly _why_ Hawkeye was here.

“Oh,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Hawkeye, who uncrossed his arms and straightened up. “I’ll get going, Coulson. See you in the morning.”

He left the room, swift and silent, and it was as if he’d never been there. Coulson’s lips were a thin straight line. Skye came hesitantly closer.

“What the hell was that about?”

“Nothing I’d rather expand on.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “I saw Bobbi at work already.” _And I worked over Ward myself,_ she didn’t say.

Coulson looked her in the eyes. “Bobbi only used words,” he said gently. “We thought a Hydra operative would be trained to resist—physical incentive.” He crossed his arms. “But the way Bakshi reacted to Hunter’s threats…”

Skye blinked. “So, what, you—you called in _Hawkeye_ to—” She swallowed. She _wasn’t_ a child. She knew what they were doing here. She’d grown enough to accept it as part of her world, even though she’d once believed nothing could ever justify torture.

She’d been young.

“Why not Bobbi again,” she finally said. “Or—or May.”

Coulson shrugged. “Barton is the best,” he said mildly, and those four little words sent a chill down Skye’s spine.

She just looked at him. Coulson sighed, then straightened up. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go get a cup of something.”

 

*

 

As he went down to the darkened basement, Clint could feel himself settle into the very specific headspace he needed. It wasn’t one he visited all that often, but that inscrutable corner of his soul was always glad to welcome him back.

It was easy, to reach down into himself, because SHIELD only ever used him against the scum of this Earth. Whatever he did tonight would not amount to a fraction of the harm Sunil Bakshi had caused—and might still cause, unless someone made him spill. Clint was good at making people spill, never mind that he dirtied himself in the process. Someone had to do it; might as well be someone whose core was already rotten.

He thought of what he was going to do and how much he was going to enjoy it.

No one was truly good at this unless they enjoyed it. He’d come to terms with it. Using the bad parts of himself for good. Besides, he’d get Bakshi to enjoy it, as well. Making them enjoy it was half the work done.

It was all about cooperation.

Clint got to the end of the stairs and found himself in complete darkness. He grabbed the remote control and pressed the first button. The invisible barrier screen became translucent, allowing him to see inside the cell.

Bakshi was asleep, slightly frowning even with his eyes closed, sleeping on his back and wearing only white medical scrubs. Clint detailed his dark hair and surprisingly delicate features, the curve of his mouth, the strength of his arms. He felt his blood begin to sing, a soft whispering murmur in his veins. Oh, yes, this was a good one _._ Clint wondered how his voice would sound and how fast his skin would mark.

He stepped forward and flicked the invisible screen, sending a shockwave across it. Bakshi’s eyes opened.

He looked to the side and stopped breathing when he realized he wasn’t alone. He propped himself up on one elbow, slowly, staring at Clint. He was tired, obviously, on edge; but he didn’t have that air of worn-down exhaustion Clint expected from people in his situation. Coulson had always been too damn soft.

“Hi,” Clint said. “Guess we don’t need introductions.”

Bakshi definitely knew who he was, but looked a little perplexed as Clint deactivated the screen. Clint wasn’t surprised; he was known for his sniper skills. The other thing, Fury had always kept under wraps.

It was easy to hide, what with Natasha and her history to deflect attention from him. Nat was good at this twisted game, too—had to be—but she didn’t _like_ it the way Clint did. He was always happy to step in for her, spare her the trouble. _His_ ledger wasn’t red; it was charcoal black and crimson at the edges.

He let the screen reform itself behind him. Bakshi was sitting up in his bed, one hand clenched around the sheet, as if he wanted to pull it up, cover himself. It was almost cute.

Clint grinned at him. “Guess we don’t need explanations, either.”

Bakshi did his best to twist his lips into a disdainful smile. “Coulson has tried this kind of thing already.”

Clint kinda loved his accent, because it was so artificial—Bakshi put obviously so much effort into keeping up his carefully crafted persona. He wanted it smooth and elegant and deadly, in true Hydra leader fashion. Maybe an inferiority complex, internalized racism—in any case a lot of self-hatred. Clint worked very well with self-hatred. It did wonders at turning people inside out.

“Maybe,” Clint said. “But _I_ didn’t. We’re gonna give it a go, yeah?”

Bakshi got up rather hurriedly—he didn’t want Clint to drag him out of bed. Or maybe he wanted to be able to fight. Or maybe he just wanted to stand. Either way, he’d just fall down harder.

“You have no tools,” Bakshi sneered, carefully keeping his distances as Clint discarded his jacket and rolled his shoulders, sinking further down into the hot dark depths of his own mind. “Nothing to work with. I won’t cave in so easily.” His hands twitched. “I’ve been trained.”

Not very well, evidently—he talked too much, filling in the silence. Hydra operatives always talked to much, and it always sounded like they were trying to reassure themselves. Bakshi was definitely trying.

“No worries,” Clint said, shooting him another grin, “you’ll be the one doing all the work.”

He stepped towards him, and Bakshi made a visible effort not to step back. He had courage; Clint liked that.

“Feels like you want me to. The way you’re looking at me. Wanna prove how tough you are. But,” he reached out and ran a finger down Bakshi’s jawline, slow and deliberate, “I think you’re not so good with pain.”

Bakshi couldn’t help shivering under his touch, or maybe because of his words. His dark eyes were boring into Clint’s. Oh, yes, this one would be good.

Clint grabbed the front of his paper shirt and shoved him roughly into the wall; he took a second to enjoy the flash of fear in Bakshi’s eyes, and then he kissed him.

People—SHIELD—thought torture was all about impersonality. Clint had been on both ends of the stick and knew it was bullshit. It was all about getting under someone’s skin and Clint knew to always follow his instinct for that. Clint knew to kiss Bakshi, because Bakshi didn’t expect anything sexual, didn’t expect humiliation either—expected clean-cut pain and an opportunity to throw grand one-liners.

Also, Clint really wanted to kiss him, because the man was drop-dead gorgeous and Clint wanted a taste. Oh, he was going to _enjoy_ himself, and Bakshi would know it, _feel_ it.

Bakshi’s lips were cracked and dry; he let out a muffled sound of surprise and protest. Never kissed a guy before, Clint registered. When Bakshi shoved him back, Clint let himself step away, licking his lips and scanning his expression.

“You vile fucking _faggot,”_ Bakshi shrieked, wiping his mouth. “How _dare_ you!”

Never kissed a guy before—and always tried to convince himself he didn’t want to, Clint completed. _That_ kind of over-the-top indignation sprang from deep internalized shame rather than simple homophobia. Clint allowed himself a little grin.

“Life hasn’t been easy, huh, Sunil,” Clint said. “Wonder how alone you’ve been to seek _those_ guys out.”

Bakshi flinched, eyes widening a little; Clint stepped back into his space again and grabbed him at the collar once more. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I’m not here to talk.” And he crashed their mouths together again.

Bakshi fought him harder, this time—jerked and tried to push him back again; but Clint didn’t allow it this time round and crushed him into the wall, shoving a thigh between his legs. Bakshi flailed, snarled, tried to claw at his face; rather than trying to immobilize him, Clint grabbed one wrist and twisted it, sharp— _just_ on the verge of breaking, and Bakshi mewled in pain and panic against his mouth.

“Open, Sunil,” Clint said against his lips, twisting his wrist. When Bakshi’s lips parted—only really because he was gasping for breath—Clint murmured, “There’s a good boy,” and slipped his tongue inside. Bakshi twisted his wrist in his grip, gasping into Clint’s mouth, trying not to grind against his thigh. He wasn’t hard yet, but he was very obviously struggling _not_ to be.

Clint pulled back with another grin. Bakshi was easy. But Clint better be thorough all the same—he had all night to work him over. Bakshi had a nice voice, slightly husky, and Clint really wanted to hear that stilted accent break into splinters.

“No underwear, huh?” he said, rubbing his thigh against Bakshi’s crotch through the paper pants. “Bold move.”

“Don’t,” Bakshi tried to growl, but it came out sounding more like a squeak. Clint shoved his knee up, ramming it into his balls, and held Bakshi up when he tried to double over—all the man could do was mash his face into Clint’s shoulder.

“Hmm,” Clint said, rolling Bakshi’s crushed balls under his knee, making him shake and choke in pain, pressing a little more into Clint with each spasm. “Got enough to work with.”

He stepped back and let Bakshi fall to his knees, retching.

“Don’t fucking throw up,” Clint said.

Bakshi gasped once, twice, but managed not to puke, cradling his wrist to his chest. He looked up at Clint with a murderous gaze, but he could barely hide the sheer terror behind it. He couldn’t deny anymore what the night would mean for him.

“Just in case you’re confused,” Clint said. “Tonight’s the demonstration. In the morning, you spill. Otherwise, tomorrow evening: repeat performance.” He got his handcuffs out from his back pocket, then crouched in front of him. “Give me your wrists, Sunil.”

“You have,” gasped Bakshi, “no right.”

Clint raised an eyebrow at him, then said, “Wrists.”

“No right to use that name,” Bakshi panted, wiping the drool from his mouth.

“Only for your close ones?” Clint asked. “By the end of the night, we will have gotten _very_ close. I think you know that. Now give me your wrists.”

“You—”

Clint punched him across the face, hard. Bakshi wavered, dazed; Clint shoved him to his side, then straddled him, forcing him to scramble all the way onto his stomach to avoid broken ribs. Once Bakshi was lying flat under him, Clint grabbed his shoulders. “Let’s see.”

He let his thumbs dig into the hard muscle. Unsurprisingly, it was stiff as wood—Bakshi had reasons to be tense these days. Clint rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, looking for the precise spot.

Bakshi jerked like he’d been shocked, and Clint grinned. “Right here?” He dug his thumbs even further. Pressure points were a bitch, but this one right there—bitch twice over. “Right here, are you really sure?”

Bakshi couldn’t even breathe through his pain. He tried to articulate words, then settled for screaming when Clint all but stabbed him there, driving his thumbs _into_ the knot of bad blood. “Please—God, please!”

Clint relented, leaving Bakshi to breathe shakily under him. He realized he was being nice; that was just his style. Take a breath after every step. Declaration of intent, check. Begging, check—and in record time, too. Bakshi was trembling, snarling silently with anger and pain.

“I don’t have tools,” Clint said into his ear. “Cause I don’t need ‘em.”

He straightened up, then walked around him and crouched in front of him again. “Give me your wrists, Sunil.”

Still shaking, Bakshi sat up and presented his wrists. Clint smiled at him while the handcuffs clicked. “Wasn’t so hard. Order comes from pain, right?”

Bakshi scowled at him. Clint dragged him close and kissed him again, making it filthier than before.

Bakshi obviously had no idea how to react to it; it wasn’t something he expected now that the actual torture had begun. Prisoners don’t get kissed; they get beaten and fucked and killed, but not _kissed._ It was throwing him off-balance. Clint could literally feel Bakshi hesitating to bite his tongue, deciding against it, opening up instead—and getting desperately confused about it. If he wasn’t fighting back, he couldn’t help giving in. Explained a lot of things about him, actually.

Clint hadn’t lied when he’d said they’d get close—torture stripped people true, enforcers and victims alike.

Clint brutally broke the kiss. “Face the wall.”

Bakshi did, paper clothes rustling as the turned. Clint stepped back and opened his jeans; he’d been at half-mast for a while just drawing noises out of him, but the flinch he got when Bakshi heard him unbuckle his belt make his cock jolt at full attention. Clint licked his lips again. Not just yet.

“You can brace against it.”

Bakshi obviously expected a rough groping and couldn’t help yelping at the first strike of the belt—right under the meat of his ass.

“Spread your legs a little,” Clint said, “you’re gonna lose your balance.”

Bakshi obeyed, and Clint caught another flicker of confusion on his face—part of the procedure; getting the victim to cooperate in small ways to pave the way towards full compliance. Bakshi didn’t get the opportunity to linger on it; the belt caught him again across the back of his thighs, making him tense jerkily—he didn’t cry out this time, but it was a close thing.

Clint worked him over patiently; he knew the strap of leather was crueler than it looked, especially on the lower back and inner thighs. Bakshi was leaning against the wall, ducking his head, sweat gathering at his hairline. The next strike had him screaming, and the next one suddenly silencing him when the paper of his pants ripped.

Clint kept laying his blows on naked skin. Bakshi’s tan thighs were reddening fast, quivering under the blows. He was mewling, little whines he couldn’t control, and Clint didn’t miss the slight jerk of his hips. He stepped forward, lowering the belt for a second, and slid a hand between Bakshi’s thighs from behind, cupping him through the shreds of paper. He wasn’t fully hard, what with pain and fear and tension, but he definitely wasn’t limp either.

“Thought so,” Clint said.

That brought a bit of fire back, but Bakshi was past articulate sentences—he just buckled under Clint’s touch, teeth clenching, and planted his feet onto the ground. Decision to endure, check.

Clint started over with the belt, shredding Bakshi’s paper clothes and quickly chipping away at his resolve. It was more difficult than Hollywood made it look, to stay stoic and impassive while someone whipped your clothing off. Each ripping sound made Bakshi’s shoulders flinch; he had freckles there which Clint found oddly endearing. He lay a few blows onto his shoulders just for the pleasure to see the starry dots stand out against reddening skin.

Bakshi was obviously not a field agent, but he was well-built, with whipcord muscle which flinched beautifully under the lash. He’d started moaning again, and Clint took it as a hint to strike with full force—he wasn’t disappointed by the gorgeous scream he got in return, throaty and loud. He hit hard enough to get another one with each blow, until Bakshi couldn’t catch his breath between each scream and started sobbing.

“Please,” he managed between gasps, “please _please—”_

“Stay _up,”_ Clint ordered with a firmer strike when Bakshi’s knees threatened to give out.

Bakshi stayed up, trembling in his shredded paper clothes, skin marred with dozens of angry red lashes, a lot of them bruising already. Clint got to work again on his inner thighs, torturing the tender skin there with lash after stinging lash. Bakshi screamed and gasped for breath whenever he could, and jerked bodily every time the edge of the belt caught his balls.

After a final blow, Clint tucked his belt under his arm, stepped close and massaged Bakshi’s shoulders, gentler than before—aware that Bakshi was waiting for the piercing pain of the pressure points again.

“You’re doing great,” he said.

Bakshi let out a sob.

Clint kept rubbing circles into his skin, then dropped his hands to his inner thighs and rubbed there, too, rubbing the pain into the flesh, digging his fingers in. Bakshi was squirming and shuddering, legs trembling, desperate to get down on his knees, to rest.

Clint slapped his ass hard. “A few more.”

“No,” Bakshi blurted. “I—no.”

“It’s okay,” Clint said. “Just count ‘em. Alright?”

Bakshi couldn’t answer before the first blow fell. “One,” he managed pitifully. “Two. Three—” Clint saw the exact moment when Bakshi realized he hadn’t been given an end number; his tears of despair and rage kept him from calling out the fourth strike.

“Didn’t catch that,” Clint said, striking him with all his strength, and Bakshi screamed _“Four!”_ and started crying in earnest.

Clint was right—he sounded great when he was in pain, all the sounds ripped from his throat ringing clear and true. “Eleven,” he was saying through clenched teeth, repressing shaky sobs, “twelve—thirteen—”

“Okay, let’s take a break,” Clint said, mainly just to hear his moan of relief. Bakshi’s backside was a mess of red marks and ripped paper.

Clint pressed close again, gripped Bakshi’s hair and turned his head into another forceful kiss. He tasted of tears and snot, but he kissed back almost eagerly, trying to distract Clint from picking up the belt again, no doubt. There was a beauty to this moment, when the survival instincts started kicking in; Bakshi was fighting for his life, self-hatred be damned for now. He didn’t even flinch when Clint cupped his crotch and rubbed him to full hardness again.

“Good,” Clint murmured. “Like that.” Bakshi’s reflexive sigh of pleasure made him add, “Grind down, work for it.”

Bakshi obeyed without thinking—and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, staring at the wall with dark, wet eyes, furious and desperate.

“This is all you,” Clint said into his ear. He grabbed his ass next, dug his fingers into the round muscle; he felt Bakshi tense all over again, not that he’d ever really relaxed.

Clint tore the shreds of paper over his ass, and Bakshi’s cuffed hands turned into fists against the cement wall. He stared at them, lips pressed tight, shaking like mad and looking like he might throw up.

“I know you’re scared,” Clint said, briefly ruffling his hair—it was surprisingly soft, even after so long without a proper shower. Bakshi was breathing fast and hard, unable to look away from the wall.

Clint had brought exactly three things Bakshi would have named “tools” with him. The first one was the handcuffs; the second one was his belt; and the third one was a small bottle of lube which he uncapped one-handed.

Bakshi had been tested since the beginning of his detainment, and Clint knew he was clean; Bakshi didn’t know the same of Clint—but didn’t have to. He flinched when Clint grabbed his ass again, then tried to fight back when two slick fingers started to press in.

“God,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “no, no no no, _please—”_ he swallowed down the rest and scowled when Clint breached him.

“Try to relax,” Clint said. “I don’t think you _can,_ but it’s worth a shot.”

Bakshi jerked under him; Clint slammed him into the wall and pushed his fingers deeper in. Bakshi let out a desperate whine. His breaths were so quick and so shallow Clint wondered if any oxygen was making it through. When he twisted his fingers inside him, Bakshi scrambled for purchase against the wall, handcuffs jingling.

“I can’t,” he started babbling feverishly, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, please, stop, please, God—”

“It’s okay. Just take a deep breath.” Clint started pumping his fingers in and out, slowly, dragging them against his rim. Bakshi actually sucked in a sharper breath and squared his shoulders, willing himself to get through this, although he was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Decision to endure, part two; check.

Clint nudged his legs further open and freed himself from his underwear. He was aching a little after such a build-up. Bakshi’s resolve crumbled all at once when he felt Clint nudge his way in.

“No,” he started sobbing, “no, no,” he gasped and pressed his forehead to the wall, clenching his jaw and screwing his eyes shut, hot tears running down his cheeks, _“fuck,”_ when Clint forced his way in.

Anal sex was always better with a bit of active resistance, even if it meant working for it. Bakshi was very much trying to resist; Clint made him take inch after inch, unhurried but firm. Bakshi’s body was tan and gleaming with sweat beneath the shredded paper, all his muscles bunching and cording under the skin. Clint could have eaten him alive if he hadn’t been already at it.

“There,” Clint said, pressing further in. Bakshi was scowling, breathing harsh and shaky, tears rolling down. “Shh,” Clint said, fully seating himself in with a final thrust. “Hey, calm down. It’s not the end of the world.”

He licked the sweat dampening Bakshi’s neck, appreciating the salty taste, nibbling a little at his throat then sucking a hickey there, a big purple bruise for him to remember. Then he grabbed Bakshi’s cock and stroked, lubed hand gliding easily over the skin. “You first,” he said into his ear.

Bakshi jerked at that. “Go,” he said, squirming and gasping, “go fuck yours—” and _there_ went the fancy accent.

Clint grinned. “Sound better like this, Sunil.”

Bakshi caught himself and looked even more mortified; he’d let his guard down and cried out when Clint gave a hard thrust. Clint wasn’t sure he’d found the prostate, but Bakshi was riled up enough that it didn’t matter. He was desperately enjoying this, and sure, it wasn’t the best way to lose one’s anal virginity, but those were the cards he’d been drawn.

“Like it?” Clint said. “Having such a big hard cock up your ass.” The porn talk worked wonders on the newbies; Bakshi was no different, shuddering and absolutely clueless as to how to react. “Gonna remember me in the morning.”

He started stroking him again, rubbing precome around the slit, and briefly daydreamed about urinary sounds—he actually _had_ tools, when he had the time and when he wasn’t doing Coulson a favor between two missions. Bakshi was a wonder to work with, and Clint really wanted to know how he’d react to vibration, to electricity, to the sharpness of a blade. Another time, maybe.

“You’re doing great,” Clint repeated, and that got to Bakshi more than the obscene whispers. He buckled, swallowing fresh tears, then clenched his jaw again. He might be hurt and distressed, but he was also full of hot searing rage, outraged that Clint dared to put him through this indignity, to strip him in all possible ways, to _take_ him like this.

“Come on,” Clint said, “Sunil,” and started stroking him in earnest. He soon found that Bakshi liked it hard and fast; not two minutes later, Bakshi buckled again and sobbed as he came, shaking with it from neck to toes, clenching convulsively around Clint’s length.

He was still panting with it when Clint grabbed his hips. “See? That was easy,” he said, rubbing his sweaty back—most of the paper clothes had fallen off by now. And he started fucking into him hard, enjoying it all the more with Bakshi’s little cries of oversensitivity. He took pleasure in making it last—he was practiced enough by now. He managed to draw it out for fifteen minutes; Bakshi was sobbing by the end of it, bracing against the wall not to fall and begging him to get it over with. When Clint came, he gave a few hard thrusts to get himself fully over the edge, then pulled out; Bakshi immediately collapsed to his knees, just in time for Clint to ejaculate all over his freckled shoulders.

“Shh,” Clint said, kneeling with him. “It’s done.” He smeared come over his shaking shoulders, then rubbed it under his nose, then pushed his fingers into his mouth. “You’re doing great,” he said again, feeding him more of his come. “Shh.”

He let Bakshi cry for a few minutes. Then he gripped his hair again, hard enough to make him hiss.

“Now,” he said, “I’m going to start with the belt again. No, hey, shh,” he said in answer to Bakshi’s loud whine, “I need to. Otherwise you’ll be all pig-headed tomorrow morning, back to playing it tough.”

He got up. “Let’s say thirty blows and call it a day. Okay? You can stay on your knees.”

Bakshi had no walls left to build up. When the belt fell over his abused back, all he could do was whine and cry. When Clint was done, Bakshi was a mess, hiccupping with sobs and flinching at the slightest breeze, completely naked now.

Clint uncuffed him then helped him up, made him cross the room and put him to bed. Bakshi curled around himself, arms wrapping around his own chest.

“Actually, you know what?” Clint said, and waited for the glint of terror in his eye to say, “We’re gonna do the questions now.”

“Please,” whispered Bakshi, exhausted, “please, I…”

“Just talking. It’s okay.” Clint sat on the bed and ran his fingers through Bakshi’s dark hair. “First of all, who knew about Insight?”

It only took twenty minutes to tear it all from him—his tells were obvious when he was shaking so hard. He tried to lie once or twice; Clint praised him for it—Bakshi was such a wreck it was a wonder he even bothered to try—then started again on his pressure points until he had him on the brink of shattering. He stuck his thumb inside him for the rest of the questioning, working his nail around the rim as he went on with the interrogation. Bakshi trembled and swallowed convulsively, thighs jerking every time Clint pressed further in. He answered all his questions.

When it was finally done, Clint leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

He left the room just as he’d come, turning the screen opaque again on his way out.

 

*

 

Coulson was waiting for him, drooping over his coffee; he raised his head.

“So—”

“Can’t talk, Coulson,” Clint said dryly.

His dark place was still gaping open in his head. It made his lips want to curl up in a permanent sneer. If Coulson challenged him, something darker still might come out.

It would be a while before the dark pit closed, a whole day of mundane things, of leaving SHIELD, taking a plane, joining Nat and Fury in Europe, giving Cap a hand for the whole Barnes thing. Slipping on the skin of the good guy again.

“Okay,” said Coulson, very low. “Okay. Did he—?”

“Watch the footage,” Clint said. “He cracks towards the end.”

He really didn’t like to talk when he was coming down—or rather coming back up—from this; but he also wanted Coulson to see—wanted him to face what he asked others to do, once in a while. Coulson was wise enough not to protest, even though he blanched a little and nodded a bit too curtly.

“I owe you one,” he said, in a neutral tone.

“I’ll cash in right now,” Clint said. “Don’t turn him in.”

Coulson blinked. “What? You can’t be serious. Talbot—”

“The US government is either going to kill him, or kill him _slowly._ And he’s been brainwashed.”

“No,” Coulson said, “there were no traces of—”

“The old-fashioned way, Coulson,” Clint said, rolling his eyes.

He had no evidence to support this, save for the twist of Bakshi’s mouth when he heard his own name, or the way his whole body had jerked when Clint had first kissed him; no evidence, save for the fact that Bakshi wasn’t straight and wasn’t white and had _still_ managed to find himself the right hand of a neo-Nazi organization.

Clint wondered how his childhood had been, who had taken him in, who had told him he could make up for his otherwise worthless self by serving a great cause.

Coulson’s face was a perfect mask of blandness. “You can’t empathize with Hydra, Barton.”

Clint grinned at him, showing all his teeth. “Right now, Coulson, _I can.”_

Coulson just stared, without a word. Clint thought maybe he’d managed to unsettle him. Coulson had already seen him like that once or twice and never knew how to react. It rejoiced Clint, the same way Bakshi’s wails and pleas had rejoiced him.

“This is what you asked for,” Clint reminded him. “And this is what you owe me. Don’t turn him in.”

It was an odd bit of self-indulgence, he knew. He wasn’t even sure why he was pitying Bakshi. He might simply be getting territorial; for some bullshit alpha dog reason, he didn’t take kindly to people laying their hands on someone he’d worked over.

But there was something else, something he wouldn’t tell Coulson—the fact that he’d spent the better part of the night torturing and raping Sunil Bakshi, and for the life of him, the only thing that stuck with him was that Bakshi had freckles on his shoulders.

He turned away. He had a plane to catch.

“Also,” he said, two steps from the door. “Skye, right?”

Coulson stiffened all at once. “What about her?”

Clint glanced at him, briefly, one last time.

“Don’t show her the video.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life, wink wink, nudge nudge. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, turns out I suck at writing one-shots that _stay_ one-shots. WHAT ELSE IS NEW.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coulson watched the whole thing with pinched lips, clenching his hand into a tight, white-knuckled fist. Bakshi had tried to commit suicide after Bobbi had interrogated him; even that day had been less unpleasant than what Coulson was now compelled to watch.

He knew this was Clint’s way of challenging him, and he wasn’t going to back off. He _had_ ordered this, knowing fully what he signed up for. But when Bakshi started begging through his sobs for it to be over, Coulson had to pause the video and pace around the room, looking at the ceiling and counting his breaths, before he sat back down and finished watching.

At the very least, the end of the video went beyond all expectations. The broken thing curled up in Bakshi’s bed, trembling under Clint’s hand, confessed to everything they wanted to know and even a few things more. Half-way through, Clint gently told Bakshi that he knew he’d just lied, and made him scream again. Afterwards, it was just a few hitching murmurs with no further interruption, and the slow circles of Clint’s hand petting Bakshi’s hair. Coulson stopped the video with no small measure of relief.

He took a minute, rubbed his eyes; then he sucked in a breath and straightened up. Now that he’d paid the figurative pound of flesh, it was time to start thinking again.

Coulson might not like it, but the fact remained: the reason Barton was so good at what he did was because of his uncanny ability to empathize with the people he tortured. As a direct result, he sometimes had trouble letting go afterwards. Now was definitely one of these times. The problem was that Bakshi knew a lot more than he’d let on about the hidden city and the Obelisk; Coulson couldn’t give him to Talbot—and so he couldn’t help meeting Clint’s demands, even though it grated at him.

He dialed Clint’s number and waited.

_“Barton.”_

“We’re keeping Bakshi for the time being,” Coulson said without preamble.

 _“Good,”_ Clint said easily, as though he’d never doubted Coulson would comply. _“Hey,_ _you still got those prison phones?”_

Coulson frowned. “Yes, we have a few left.”

_“Okay. Give one to Bakshi and text me the number. I want you to keep him in complete isolation otherwise. No one visit him, no one talk to him.”_

Coulson took a silent breath. “To what end?”

 _“I’m not done with him,”_ Clint said simply. _“You hired me to work him over. That’s what I’m doing.”_

“He talked. We don’t condone gratuitous torment.”

_“Then see it as an exercise in counter-brainwashing. What were you gonna do with him anyway?”_

The line went dead before Coulson could think of an answer.

Coulson ran a hand over his face, wishing it could take the last night off. Then he took a prison phone from his desk, went down to the infirmary, grabbed a pair of medical scrubs and went yet further down to the cell.

Bakshi wasn’t sleeping. He’d curled up under the sheet and flinched when the lights turned on; he slowly, warily sat up, looking gaunt and red-eyed.

“I brought you replacement scrubs,” Coulson said in his blander voice, keeping his face carefully neutral. “And I wanted to thank you for your cooperation.”

Bakshi looked at him like he’d grown two heads and they were both vomiting.

Coulson gave him a thin smile, then put the phone on top of the folded scrubs and pushed them past the barrier screen, into the cell. Bakshi didn’t leave the bed, of course. The sheet had slid down when he’d sat up, and the red lashes over his back looked sensitive. There was dried semen on his skin, flaking off.

He looked smaller somehow, vulnerable, like some helpless creature dragged out of its shell and left to curl up around nothing.

Coulson suddenly decided to tell Bakshi what was going on—letting him stew would have been cruel, and more importantly, useless. Barton had asked Coulson to keep Bakshi in the dark, but that could begin tomorrow; at the moment, the video was still all too vivid in Coulson’s memory.

“You’re going to stay with us for a little while,” he said, then nodded at the narrow service elevator in the corner. “Real clothes will be delivered to you shortly.”

What little composure Bakshi had regained crumbled again. “What?” he stammered hoarsely. “But—I told you everything. I told _him_ everything. I swear, I—”

“I know,” Coulson said. “We’re not giving you to Talbot after all.”

Bakshi blinked at him. Objectively, he should have been relieved. There were only two possible ends for him outside of SHIELD; either Hydra caught up with him and took him out, or he found himself strapped to a gurney waiting for the lethal injection courtesy of the US government.

But Coulson’s nonsensical decision to keep him only put Bakshi more on edge. “Why not?” he said. “What else could you possibly want from me?”

“You’ll have to ask Barton.”

Bakshi’s hands trembled.

 _That_ had been a cruel thing to say, but it was also the truth, and sparing Bakshi from it wouldn’t have been a kindness in the long run. Of course, Coulson could have refused Clint’s request altogether; but the simple, cold truth was that Barton was useful, valuable, _needed_ —and Bakshi was not. Not enough for Coulson to thwart one of his best operatives, anyway.

If Clint was willing to waste his time over Bakshi, he might as well have his way. Hell, something useful might even come out of it, if really there was something left to be done. Coulson would have enough on his plate with a dissatisfied Talbot.

He turned away without explaining the phone. Bakshi would find out soon.

 

*

 

Clint got the text on his way to the airport. It contained the phone number and a single line from Coulson, purely perfunctory: _keep me updated._

Clint couldn’t repress a grin. Bakshi was all his.

That meant keeping the dark door at the back of his mind open, but it didn’t always close easy and Clint had learned not to force it shut. There was a thread to be pulled here, and he’d follow it to its natural end.

His plane had been delayed for a few hours and he’d done a bit of research on Bakshi to kill time. He’d found nearly nothing save for the confirmation of his own interest. Bakshi had served in the British army; he had grown up in the Southall district west of London, probably on the streets. He’d refined his accent since then, just like Clint had guessed. He had a small scar over his knee, dark hair, dark eyes—and freckles on his shoulders.

It had been a while since one of Clint’s subjects had retained his attention like this.

An important fraction of his interest was purely professional. He had a unique opportunity to take Bakshi apart, what with SHIELD keeping him for Clint like a horse at livery. Even if nothing concrete came out of it, it’d still be a useful frame of reference for future jobs.

The phone line was absolutely essential. Prison phones were encased into an unbreakable shell of Plexiglas; they couldn’t be taken apart and their settings couldn’t be changed. The only thing Bakshi would be able to do was accept a call. There was no voicemail; the phone would keep ringing as long as Bakshi didn’t put the call through.

Clint selected his new contact and listened to the dial tone with a little smile. It had been a little less than thirty-six hours since his encounter with Bakshi. He wondered how he was doing.

It was five full minutes before someone picked up. Clint heard Bakshi’s hesitant voice in his ear. _“…Hello?”_

Clint grinned. He could almost _hear_ him shake. “Hi, Sunil,” he said.

There was a loud clatter and Clint knew Bakshi had thrown the phone away.

Clint huffed a laugh and ended the call, then put his phone back in his pocket, without bothering to call again. Now began the long game.

 

*

 

He called again four days later, in the middle of the night. Bakshi, of course, didn’t answer. Clint let the phone ring for one hour before he ended the call, knowing that he was keeping Bakshi awake—the prison phones had a piercing, shrill ringtone that couldn’t be ignored.

He did it again every night; the fact that Bakshi wouldn’t answer didn’t bother him. Patience was everything in this job, and Bakshi would cave in eventually. In the meantime, Clint had fun varying the length and the frequency of the calls. One night, on stake-out duty for the CIA, he called for exactly one minute every hour of the night. Another night, he let the phone ring for three hours straight, ended the call for two minutes (imagining the relief, the gratitude that it had _stopped,_ the heavy tiredness kicking in) then called again (disbelief, then horror, refusal, emotional breakdown) and let it ring for three more hours (intense distress, nervous exhaustion, eventual dissociation). The very next night, he called for all but two minutes, knowing that Bakshi would expect more and stay awake all night dreading the next call. Even though Bakshi wasn’t picking up yet—and Clint had to command him for his resolve—there was a world of communication between them already, through Clint’s carefully-timed calls.

Clint was having _fun._

It was another three days before Bakshi finally cracked. Clint didn’t even have time to say hi; the phone call abruptly went through and Bakshi’s frantic voice was in his ear.

 _“I don’t know what you want from me_ ,” he said, breathless and trying so hard not to sound manic. _“I already gave you everything.”_

“Hey there,” Clint said, slightly shifting and keeping his eye on the scope. “S’good to hear your voice.”

He was in Iraq at the moment and had been waiting for his target all day, lying on his stomach in the heat; he was glad Bakshi had chosen this moment to break. The distraction was very welcome.

He could hear Bakshi pace in his cell, could hear his uneven breaths. _“Why are you—”_ he audibly swallowed. _“What do you want? Why have I not been handed over?”_

“Aw, c’mon, Sunil,” Clint said. “You know better than to ask me that.”

 _“I already gave you everything,”_ Bakshi repeated, voice breaking.

“Not everything,” Clint said nonchalantly. “But it’ll come.” He shifted again, keeping his eye on the prize.

 _“Just—just tell me what you want,”_ Bakshi stammered.

“Start with answering the phone when I call you, yeah?”

His target was coming down the street. Huh, that was early.

_“I don’t—”_

“I’m at work, Sunil, I’ll call you back.”

Clint took care of ending the call before firing the rifle.

 

*

 

“Hey,” Clint said two days later, back in the US. “Almost thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

 _“I was asleep,”_ Bakshi hissed.

Of course, the poor guy had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

“Oh, yeah, fucking time zones, sorry. It’s daytime where I am,” Clint said, looking outside at the night sky. Full moon tonight, he distantly noticed. “So, how’re you faring?”

 _“I—I’m—”_ Bakshi still hadn’t wrapped his mind around the whole phone call thing. _“Look—I answered the phone like you said. What do you want? Is it money? Is it protection? I can—I can get you that.”_

Clint laughed. “You must really be losing it to think anyone would buy that. Not getting a lot of visitors, are you?”

For a long while, all he heard was Bakshi’s loud breaths on the line. Clint heard him swallow wetly and knew he was crying—unable to understand what was being asked of him. It probably wasn’t his first breakdown, and it wouldn’t be his last.

“There’s one thing I don’t get,” Clint said conversationally. “Why did you try to kill yourself?”

There was a silence. Then a small, wet, _“What?”_

“When Morse questioned you. The whole cheekbone cyanide thing.”

Another pause. When he spoke again, Bakshi sounded almost proud despite his wrecked, hoarse voice. _“You must not know what loyalty is.”_

Clint laughed. “I don’t think you do either—you talked, remember?”

Bakshi’s breath hitched; he said nothing.

“You wanted to impress your boss, I get that,” Clint went on. “But at the cost of your _life?_ Was that guy really all you had?”

 _“Hydra,”_ Bakshi said, voice clipped, _“is worth dying for.”_

“You’re saying that a lot,” Clint said, getting up and mindlessly pacing the room, like he always did on the phone. “Yet you took the bait at once when Coulson made you kill your bosses.”

Bakshi swallowed audibly. _“I—I was deceived,”_ he squeaked. _“I would never have betrayed—”_

“Shh,” Clint said. “Believe me, I know.”

Bakshi let out a ragged breath. He needed approval so badly even Morse had noticed it.

“But the fact remains,” Clint said, “that you took the bait. You were so ready to believe they’d betray _you._ And Whitehall’s death didn’t exactly devastate you, either. You weren’t devoted to _them.”_

 _“Whitehall might be dead,”_ Bakshi said, _“but the Red Skull’s ideal lives on.”_ His voice took a ferocious note, which was rather amusing—like a wet kitten. _“And no matter what you do to me, I’ll be replaced. Cut off one head—”_

“Oh, I’m sure two more have already grown,” Clint said idly. “You’ve been replaced alright.”

Nothing but Bakshi’s raspy breaths.

“Wait for my call,” Clint said, and hung up.

 

*

 

Clint called again one week later; Bakshi was a little less frantic, having obviously caught up on his sleep.

“I got Wi-Fi where I am,” Clint said. “D’you want me to check the weather in Southall?”

Bakshi’s surprise only lasted a second. He sounded resigned to the fact that Clint knew everything about him. _“It’s not a place I long for,”_ he answered stiffly.

“Man, must have been really bad for you to prefer SHIELD’s basement. You haven’t seen the sun in, what? Three months?”

Bakshi stumbled a little over his words. _“It’s—it’s only been two months.”_

“Uh, no?” Clint said. “Three. Are you starting to lose time already?”

He could hear Bakshi’s breath pick up. In truth, it had barely been a month and a half, but there were no windows in his cell and he just didn’t _know._ Meant Coulson was keeping him in full isolation like Clint had requested, then; good.

Clint stuck the phone between his head and shoulder and kept chopping his potatoes next to the pan of boiling water. He heard Bakshi swallow, and wondered if he missed simple, domestic things, or if he was just hungry for real food. SHIELD’s processed rations were a nightmare.

“I thought you’d be better trained,” Clint went on. “I mean, you really _were_ Whitehall’s right hand. A head of Hydra. With a name like yours? That’s almost impressive.”

 _“Who says that’s my real name?”_ Bakshi mumbled.

Clint laughed. “It’s cute that you’re still trying, but only a complete idiot would pick a name like that and try to join a Nazi cult.”

He let a minute pass. Bakshi obviously didn’t know how to react to Clint calling him cute—whether to address the insult, or to pretend he hadn’t registered it as such. Clint decided to let him know the cat was already out of the bag.

“A gay man with an Indian first name and an Israelite last name,” he said, “not my first choice for a Hydra head, honestly. Though, a Southall orphan desperate to prove himself makes a little more sense.”

 _“I am not gay,”_ spat Bakshi at once.

“Sure you aren’t,” Clint said, dropping his potatoes into the boiling water which splashed his hand. “Ouch, goddammit.”

 _“You,”_ spluttered Bakshi, choking up a little, _“you made me—you took—I didn’t—”_

“I know,” Clint said, rolling his eyes. “I was there, remember?” He began grating cheese over a plate. “But I did it to a few straight guys, too, you know. I can tell the difference.”

Bakshi found nothing to say to that. Clint put down the grater and opened the fridge. “I still can’t believe you’d die for Hydra. Those guys are basically against everything you are.”

 _“I’m not expecting you to understand,”_ Bakshi said, acid.

“Was it worth it?” Clint asked.

There was a silence filled with the noise of bubbling water.

“Pruning yourself down for them. Was it worth it?” 

 _“Yes,”_ Bakshi said, but he sounded tired.

Clint ended the call.

 

*

 

He didn’t call Bakshi for another three weeks. He was growing a little impatient by the end of it, but at least _he_ knew what was going on.

When he finally called, Bakshi answered instantly with a breathless, _“Hello?”_

“Hey,” Clint said flippantly. “How’s isolation treating you?”

 _“I don’t—”_ Bakshi sucked in a breath, obviously trying to control himself, but he was unraveling. _“What did I do?”_

“What d’you mean?”

 _“You stopped calling,”_ Bakshi said, plaintive, and went on frantically as though he expected Clint to hang up. _“Whatever it was, I won’t do it again. I won’t—”_

“Calm down,” Clint said. “I was busy. Kinda forgot about you for a while, sorry.”

Bakshi’s ragged breaths were a delight to hear. For all the strain the isolation was putting on his psyche, he wasn’t an idiot. Hydra wanted him dead and so did the US government. Absolutely no one had reported his disappearance. There had been no anxious neighbor or no angry landlord. No one cared about Sunil Bakshi’s existence save for Clint at the other end of the line, and they were both very much aware of that fact.

Bakshi’s shaky exhale was like a gust of wind. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and dead. _“I know what you’re doing.”_

Obviously he’d had time to think. “Do you now?”

 _“I’m aware I’ve been abandoned.”_ Bakshi sounded exhausted, straining to maintain his lucidity. _“I deserve as much—I failed them.”_ He managed to infuse a bit of strength in his worn voice. _“But no matter how long you keep me here, I won’t disown our cause.”_

“Was it so great?” Clint asked softly.

Bakshi put all the dignity he had left into his answer. _“Enough to give them my life.”_

“That’s pretty much all you’ve got left to give them.”

_“So be it.”_

And then Clint _grinned._

“Okay,” he said.

He waited for Bakshi’s hesitation, for the beginning of his _“What do you—”_ before he cut the communication.

He dialed Coulson next.

 

*

 

The gloves were only there to impress, if Clint was being sincere. They were black latex, folded over his arm for now. That and the firetruck red basin he carried were his only additional tools for the day.

Bakshi was sitting on his bed, with his hands pressed between his thighs. He looked up at once when he heard the door open—he hadn’t gotten a single visit in four months. The phone in its case of Plexiglas was lying on his pillow.

When he saw it was Clint, he scrambled to his feet, struggling to conceal his fear and failing miserably. He’d stopped questioning Clint’s phone calls over the weeks, but his physical presence was something else entirely.

“Hey,” Clint said, crossing the barrier screen.

He set the basin on the floor with a loud clatter which sounded across the confined cell. Bakshi was slightly thinner, slightly paler; his dark eyes were red-rimmed, and his hair was dirty after months of sponge baths. He eyed the red basin warily, without a word, staying as far from Clint as the cramped room allowed.

Clint nonchalantly kicked the basin to the tap in the corner, and filled it with cold water; it took five long minutes, during which neither of them talked. Then he dragged the basin back to the middle of the room, with a loud scraping sound, until it was right under the light. It looked garish and eerie sitting there, with water still sloshing inside.

Bakshi was standing with his back to the wall and looked on the brink of hyperventilating. Clint had put on his full executioner outfit, black fatigues and heavy boots. The finale was always what he liked most.

“I wouldn’t stay over there if I were you,” Clint remarked. “You won’t get another chance.”

“Another chance at what?” Bakshi said, voice edging into hysteria.

“Coulson won't let you out. And I know you don’t have any cyanide capsules left.” He nodded at the red basin. “I stuck the cameras on a loop; we have a few minutes. Should be enough.”

Bakshi stared at the basin.

He didn’t even try to discuss Clint’s chosen method of execution. In fact, he seemed fascinated by the basin and what it promised, mesmerized by the light diffracted in the water. He had a taste for the dramatic, which captivity had not quite entirely stripped from him.

And he’d been kept in limbo for so long. He was desperate for it to end.

“Wanna be cuffed?” Clint offered. “It’ll help.”

Bakshi’s gaze snapped up at him. He looked utterly lost, shaking already. Clint’s casual tone helped, his voice helped—it was all he’d had for so long.

“I—”

“I’ve done this a few times,” Clint said. “Trust me, resolve doesn’t matter—you’re going to thrash a lot.”

Bakshi swallowed.

“I—” he repeated, gaze drawn to the bright red of the basin again. “I…” Something crumbled in his expression. “Alright.”

Clint hadn’t been sure he’d accept, and was careful not to smile, keeping his expression neutral, professional. “Good. Take off your shirt,” he instructed, “or it’s gonna get soaked.”

Bakshi obeyed as though in a daze. He was a bit less tan than before and the sparse freckles on his shoulders stood out all the more. After another long bout of hesitation, he crossed the room to go to Clint.

Clint gestured for him to turn round, then cuffed his hands in his back, drawing the bracelets very tight around the wrists. Bakshi’s breathing picked up a little.

Clint gave a little kick to the back of his legs. “Kneel down.”

He didn’t drag Bakshi to the basin, just put a hand on his neck to guide him and let him shuffle on his own towards it, scraping his knees on the rough cement. When they got to it, Bakshi was trembling. He caught sight of his own reflection in the water and closed his eyes.

“It’s going to take you two or three minutes to lose consciousness,” Clint said, putting on his gloves and making the latex snap. “Seven to drown completely. Not gonna be very pleasant.”

Bakshi swallowed. Clint grabbed his hair with one gloved hand, and put the other on his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Then he plunged him into the water.

Bakshi’s whole body shook—the cold, no doubt. He did his best to keep still afterwards. Clint pressed firmly onto the back of his head, pushing it whole underwater; his muscles were bunching in his back, his skin pebbling with goosebumps.

His chest quivered in small fluttering jerks as he tried to hyperventilate but blocked his own impulse to breathe. He wasn’t going to last long. It was a few dozen seconds before he started bucking uncontrollably, tugging against Clint’s hold; Clint increased the weight onto his head, knowing how merciless the contact of the latex gloves could feel. He put his knee in the middle of Bakshi’s back in preparation for what would come.

After another dozen seconds, Bakshi started struggling in earnest, jerkily at first, then with unbidden violence, legs kicking desperately and head straining against Clint’s hand. Clint waited for him to inhale a first gulp of water before he let him come up.

Bakshi sucked in a hoarse, grating breath, and dissolved into a coughing fit, choking and retching. Clint tightened his grip on his hair, forcefully dragged him back above the sloshing surface.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “For good this time.”

He shoved Bakshi’s head underwater again.

Bakshi bucked under his weight, fighting against the handcuffs. Clint kept him down for almost a minute; by the end of it, he had to use all his weight to keep him in place. When he let Bakshi come up again, Bakshi retched and sobbed and desperately tried to scramble away from the basin, blind and dumb with panic. He kicked it in his flailing, but it was so full of water it barely moved away.

“Shh,” Clint said. “It’s okay. Let’s go again.”

He dragged Bakshi by his hair to the water, making him scramble forward; Bakshi was too weak to resist, but by the time he got there, he managed to suck in a breath and cry out, “No more—stop—please!”

Clint brought him roughly over the surface. “This is what you wanted,” he said, pressing down. “For the glory of Hydra. Right?”

“Please,” Bakshi begged frantically, “please—I don’t… I don’t…”

Clint fisted his soaked hair and twisted harshly. “You’re gonna have to say it out loud, Sunil.” He shook him. _“Say it.”_

“I don’t want to die,” Bakshi screamed. “I don’t want to die!”

Clint roughly let him go; Bakshi collapsed on the floor, and broke down into ugly, shameful sobs that wracked his whole frame. Even during the rape, he hadn’t cried with such abandon.

Clint allowed himself a little smile. He took off his gloves, then crouched next to him and put a hand on his shaking shoulders.

“Shh,” Clint said, rubbing circles into the skin. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s over.”

He dragged Bakshi close and held him. Bakshi was cold and wet, soaking Clint’s shirt, shaking desperately in his arms. Clint kissed his freckled shoulders and let him cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter will be here in a few days. Can't wait to know what you thought. :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It took long minutes for Bakshi to calm down. He never stopped shaking, so violently his teeth chattered, unable to fully catch his breath and pressing miserably into Clint’s embrace like it could protect him. When Clint got up, Bakshi scrambled after him, terrified.

“Just getting your shirt,” Clint said. “It’s okay.” He picked it up, then spotted a sweatshirt on the bed and took it as well.

He came back to Bakshi whose soaked hair was dripping down his back. Clint toweled him off with the shirt; he uncuffed him, then helped him put on the sweatshirt over his bare chest. Bakshi’s shoulders were stiff, and his wrists were chafed raw with how hard he’d struggled.

“Come on,” Clint said, tugging him. “Up.”

Bakshi tried to get up but failed; Clint heaved him to his feet and threw his arm across his shoulders. Then he took him across the barrier screen, which he hadn’t reactivated. Bakshi didn’t react, didn’t even notice—he was still in shock, too exhausted to do anything else than what Clint demanded of him.

Clint had to almost carry him up the stairs. The headquarters were dark; Coulson had drawn people away from the area for the night. For all his reluctance, he’d been quite helpful. The fake windows let Clint know the sun was just coming up.

He took Bakshi into the elevator, pressed the button to the roof, then let him lean against the wall and kissed him.

Bakshi didn’t react at first, lips barely moving under Clint’s. Eventually, he seemed to come back to himself enough to realize what was happening to him; even then, he just let Clint kiss him, unable to fight back or reciprocate, too weak to do anything.

Clint only pulled back when the elevator dinged; he helped Bakshi out, then took him up the last flight of stairs to the roof. It was just a small platform of concrete between two mountains—the Playground was artfully hidden—but there were no clouds above, and the sky was a pale fragile blue, touched by the first rays of dawn.

Bakshi looked at the sky, blinking a little, holding onto Clint not to fall. He was still flushed from the cold water, shaking, but he _looked_ at the sky like his dark eyes were bottomless pits all the color in the world could never fill. Clearly, he hadn’t believed he’d ever see it again.

Eventually, he welled up and had to look down, tears rolling down his cheeks again. His shudders got worse, and his grip on Clint slipped a little.

“Wanna sit down?” Clint offered.

“Yes,” mumbled Bakshi, “yes, please.”

Clint helped him sink down onto the concrete, and sat down with him, smiling. Bakshi looked like he couldn’t look away from him, now.

“Didn’t realize what that cyanide pill would cost you, huh,” Clint said, and Bakshi shuddered as though he only realized now that he’d actually, genuinely tried to kill himself not a few months ago.

Clint let that sink in for a minute, then tilted his head to the side. “You know,” he said “I never asked you why Hydra’s values were so important to you. Is it the whole world supremacy thing?”

Bakshi looked down, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Order,” he whispered. “Hydra was going to bring us order.” He shook.

“Yeah, well, breaking news, that’s the goal of every organization ever,” Clint said. “SHIELD, too. The difference being that Hydra respects human life a little less. _Sunil,”_ he cut off when Bakshi opened his mouth, “you were going to let me _drown_ you.”

“I wanted it to be over,” Bakshi said in a small voice.

Clint ruffled his hair. “I know.”

Bakshi closed his eyes as Clint’s hand went down to rub the back of his neck. The utter defeat in his expression was a work of art—if Clint did say so himself. Getting information out of someone was child’s play; but total psychic breakdown could only be achieved by the best in the business.

Bakshi had done all he could to stay faithful to his values; but now there he was, crushed with shame, mortified at his own weakness, still alive and shaking with the infamy of it. The upside of extremism was that their beliefs were difficult to crack; but the downside was that once they did, the subject’s entire system crumbled and he had absolutely nothing left. Clint loved to feel those little tremors under his hand, like those of a tamed animal. It filled him with the deep satisfaction of a job well done.

“You chose to live,” he said, “that’s always brave.”

Praise was the easiest way to shape a broken thing. The need for approval, the need to belong—it trumped all else, even the most deeply rooted prejudices.

“The way I see it now,” Clint went on, “you’ve got a choice. I bring you back to the cell and we finish up with the basin. Or—” he shrugged. “You make a different call.”

The alternative was perfunctory; Bakshi had already made his choice. When he looked up, the twisted, disbelieving hope in his eyes was still mixed with a healthy dose of wariness. Bakshi _was_ clever, even after months in isolation and a drowning that had probably cost him a few brain cells.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice wavering. “Why me?”

“Just a little bit of self-indulgence,” Clint grinned. “I’ve always liked freckles.” He got to his feet. “Now c’mon, you’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

 

*

 

Bakshi’s legs were still weak, and he panicked when Clint steered him towards the basement, begging him _I can’t go back, I can’t do this anymore, please, please;_ Clint reassured him that it wasn’t gonna happen, and bypassed the stairs to reach the habitation quarters.

When Clint pushed him towards the shower, telling him to take his time, Bakshi almost broke down with gratitude. He spent nearly fifteen minutes under the hot water while Clint put the pizza in the oven. It was a great pizza, with Italian ham and cheese and mushrooms and olives and a plump soft crust.

Bakshi came out of the bathroom with his clothes back on; he stayed at the door, eyes widening a little when he smelled the food. He wanted it so badly—he would have begged for it, crawled for it, but Clint just nodded at him to take a seat. Bakshi hesitantly crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the chair. He watched Clint as he cut up a slice, put it in a plate, slid it towards him.

Clint expected Bakshi to cram it into his face; but after he was given permission to take it, Bakshi ate it slowly, taking his time with each bite, as if it was his last meal.

“You can have another one,” Clint said magnanimously, and Bakshi took another slice without a word.

As he ate, he started shuddering, slightly at first then more violently. Real food after so long, the hot shower and the wide blue sky—it was too much for him.

“Shh,” Clint said, getting up and walking around the table to wrap his arms around him. “Shh.”

Bakshi shivered in his grasp, face pressed against Clint’s stomach, swallowing down his tears. Clint made him look up, then framed his face and kissed him.

Bakshi wasn’t unresponsive like he’d been with the elevator, but he was still very tentative and chased nothing more than his own salvation in Clint’s mouth. This was all he had left to barter with—and no one else was interested. He couldn’t afford to mess this up.

Without breaking the kiss, Clint made him get up from his chair and take a few steps to the side to push him slowly onto the bed. Bakshi’s already shaky breath hitched, but he regained control of it after a second. Clint helped him pull the sweater over his head, and dropped it to the floor. Then he pressed Bakshi into the mattress and kissed him thoroughly.

When he pulled back, Bakshi’s breathing had picked up again. Still, when Clint tugged his pants off, Bakshi lifted his hips to help him, though he still looked anxious and so terribly confused. The last time had been brutal and forceful; this time around, there was no lashing belt, no handcuffs, and he was in a bed. He could watch himself as it happened, and a lifetime of homophobia had him obviously freaking out. He couldn’t snap out of it, though—maybe he still _had_ a sliver of a chance at that exact point; but then Clint leaned forward to kiss him again and grabbed his cock, and Bakshi was lost.

He hissed into Clint’s mouth when Clint’s free hand found his nipple and twisted it hard; but for the most part he stayed on his back, helpless against his own body’s reactions and the way Clint played them, hands running over his tan chest, his sides, rubbing his pelvis, pressing on his thighs.

“Turn onto your stomach,” Clint said after a while, “go on.”

Bakshi complied, and shuddered violently when Clint grabbed his ass, massaged it, groped it, held it open, digging thumbs into his inner thighs. They both remembered this part.

Clint considered for a moment, then leaned forward and pressed his tongue into him.

The violent jerk and the squeak he got in response were priceless. Bakshi gripped the mattress with both hands, at a complete loss, able only to shake with each flicker of Clint’s tongue. Clint thoroughly ate him out, grabbing his ass with calloused fingers to hold it firmly open and pressing his face into it, darting his tongue as far as possible, pulling back to graze and scrape the rim with his teeth before lapping his way in again. Bakshi’s little helpless noises were a delight to hear.

When Clint straightened up, wiping at his chin with a lazy grin, Bakshi was flushed red with shame, a few tears rolling down his cheeks. He jerked when Clint shoved his fingers into the slickness of his own spit. Clint dug in his back pocket for the lube, then pulled his shirt off one-handed, unbuckled himself and kicked off his pants. He slicked his fingers on their way out, then pushed in again, adding a third.

“Please,” Bakshi couldn’t help blurting.

“Relax,” Clint instructed, rubbing slow circles inside him. “Don’t forget to breathe. Clench when I pull out, not when I push in.”

Bakshi didn’t answer, but sucked in a breath when Clint grabbed his hips. Clint pushed in slowly, slowly, lying on top of him as he went, and grabbing Bakshi’s wrists to pin them down on each side of his head. He drove fully into him with a harsher thrust, nailing him into the mattress.

He kissed the freckles on his shoulders, then bit him over a three-point constellation near his neck, sinking his teeth into the flesh and feeling Bakshi clench reflexively around him. He was shaking like mad under Clint’s weight, maybe even more than he had during their more forceful encounter. Clint tugged his wrists forward so he’d have even less purchase, holding him splayed out on the bed.

“Come on, I’m doing all the work here,” he said with a harsh thrust which made him whimper. “Clench—” Clint pulled out, “and relax,” then thrust back in. “Clench—and relax—good. You’re getting it. Much better—already.”

He straightened up a little, partially slipping out; then he let go of Bakshi’s wrists to grab his hips instead. “Push up, get on all fours.”

Bakshi complied, then hissed and swallowed a whine when Clint changed his angle, fucking right into him and starting up with harsher thrusts.

“You’re too tense,” Clint said, rubbing circles into his hips even as he kept on thrusting hard into him. “Try to enjoy this a little. Touch yourself, go ahead.”

Bakshi swallowed; slowly, reluctantly, his hand found its way down to wrap around his cock. Clint wrapped his own hand over Bakshi’s and guided him into stroking himself in time with his thrusts.

Clint shifted his angle a little and probably hit the prostate by chance since Bakshi buckled with a moan.

“Liked that, huh?”

Actually, Bakshi looked overstimulated, wincing and jerking with each thrust, muscles seizing in his back. But he kept stroking himself, even though his thighs quivered every time Clint rammed it in. After this, there wasn’t much left standing in the way of climax, and Clint came inside Bakshi a few minutes later, pulsing slick and hot into him. He stayed inside and made Bakshi stroke himself harder and faster until he spilled into Clint’s hand with a cry and a deep shudder.

Bakshi collapsed onto his elbows, dropping his head forward, breathing in shaky gasps. His back was glistening with sweat.

“Can you grab a tissue?” Clint asked casually, still thrusting lazily to milk himself all the way. Bakshi swallowed his tears and looked up with what seemed like a huge effort; he stretched to the side to grab a tissue on the nightstand, wincing with Clint still inside him.

“Thanks,” Clint said, and took the time to wipe his hand before he finally pulled out. Bakshi didn’t move, utterly exhausted but not daring to let himself collapse. Clint pushed on his hips to get him to lie down, noticing with a little smile that his come was dripping down Bakshi’s inner thighs. He took the time to collect it on his fingers and rub it back into him.

Bakshi looked at him anxiously when Clint lay down next to him.

“You did great,” Clint said. He trailed his slick fingers across his cheek, then dropped a kiss to his mouth. “Sleep. It’ll all seem better in the morning.”

He drew the covers over them both, tugged Bakshi into his arms then turned off the light.

 

*

 

They slept all day—Clint did, anyway; Bakshi was so utterly exhausted he probably managed to sleep a little, too, even though Clint had his leg jammed between his thighs, rubbing against him whenever he moved.

When Clint woke up for good, Bakshi was awake. He drew himself tense upon seeing Clint’s eyes flutter open, but he didn’t move, and closed his eyes when Clint idly ran his fingers through his soft dark hair.

“We’re gonna give you to Coulson,” Clint said, absentmindedly petting him. “It’s the best choice for you yet.”

Bakshi looked up at him, dark eyes wide. “But I already—” he swallowed. “I already talked. He has no use for me.”

“Don’t be stupid. They always need more operatives,” Clint said. “And you’ve been on the other side. That’s always precious.”

Bakshi shivered a little at this last word, with some kind of naked, desperate longing in his eyes which was just too _cute._

“Cheer up,” Clint said, “We’ll make something outta you yet. Now c’mon,” he kicked the covers off, “we both need a shower.”

He had Bakshi wash his back, then pushed him to his knees and spent half an hour teaching him how to give good head. Apart from some choking and a few more tears, Bakshi’s performance was honorable for a first-timer. He was caught by surprise when it was time to swallow; but at Clint’s suggestion, he licked up the drops he’d missed on the tiles, so it was all good.

 

*

 

From behind the two-way glass, Coulson stared at Bakshi sitting in the interrogation room. He was handcuffed to the table, having hurriedly assured Clint he didn’t mind, with a frantic eagerness which made Coulson slightly queasy.

It was the same man who’d sat there a few months ago to be interrogated by Bobbi; and yet he couldn’t have been more different. He looked hollow, brittle, flinching at every noise. His dark eyes were darting around the room.

Coulson repeated to himself he’d been justified in leaving him in Barton’s hands. Maybe one day he’d manage to believe it.

“Well, he just betrayed his own ideals,” Barton said, like a horse breeder presenting his latest gelding. “He’s directionless, fucking terrified that we might kill him after all, and _really_ eager to please. I just tested him during the night, and I can tell you—he’ll do anything you ask.” He grinned. “What’s the phrase Hydra likes so much? ‘Happy to comply.’”

“Any particular maintenance instructions?” Coulson said, caustic.

If Barton caught the bitter irony in his tone, he didn’t react to it and actually answered instead.

“Put him to work, give him mindless tasks to start with, things an idiot could do. Don’t reassure him too much that you want him around, but be kind to him once in a while, keep him thirsty for it. Give him little things, little rewards, a room with a shower, comfort food, that kind of things. Let him form connections if he can, but don’t hesitate either to encourage active mistrust or contempt against him. The harder he works to fit in, the better it’ll take. You gotta keep him on his toes, don’t let him take anything for granted.” He tapped his jaw, thinking. “Teach him to say he’s grateful; it’ll consolidate that headspace, and that way he’ll rebuild himself around it, internalize it. Monitor everything he does, of course, let him know he’s always being watched. Oh, and put my number in his phone, he’s gonna freak out if he can’t talk to me. And that way I can still make sure he’s shaping up the way we want to.”

At that point, Coulson dearly wished he hadn’t asked. “I thought you didn’t like talking during a job,” he said through gritted teeth.

“This is _after_ the job,” Barton grinned. He did look like he was back to his normal, easy-going self, his eyes crinkling like they usually did after a particularly impressive shot. “It’s done now. I can feel it.” He gestured to the back of his head, though Coulson didn’t quite understand what he meant by that.

His expression must still betray how he felt, because Barton raised an eyebrow at him. “C’mon, Coulson. He’s only thirty-five. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and now he won’t throw it away to Hydra. We did a good thing.”

Coulson looked across the glass at Bakshi. He couldn’t fault what Barton had just said; yet Coulson’s stomach was still heavy with dread as he detailed the broken, frazzled look in Bakshi’s red-rimmed eyes.

Sometimes, he really hated his job.

 

*

 

“And then he did _what?_ Oh god, no, wait—oh, wait, I think the pizza’s here,” Clint said, half-choking with laughter. “Don’t go on without me.”

“Or don’t go on at all,” Stark squeaked at Rhodes, who grinned widely at him and said, “What’s the point of meeting the Avengers if I can’t tell them embarrassing stories about you, man?”

“It’s important to get to know your teammates,” Rogers deadpanned.

“I am afraid I’m not a very good listener,” Thor added, “might we please hear that glorious tale again?”

They all laughed almost loudly enough to cover Tony’s outraged yelp.

“Clint, wait,” Pepper said, getting up, “I’ll get it.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, shooting her a grin. “You enjoy that Clicquot 1999 or whatever the date was.”

“Thank you, darling,” she said, sitting back, then raising an exaggerated eyebrow at Tony. “See? _Clint_ knows how to behave in civil society.”

Clint left the room while Stark complained some more. Still laughing a little under his breath, he went to open the door. He’d expected an awestruck delivery guy, and raised an eyebrow at the two suit-clad silhouettes standing in the hallway—then smirked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Thanks, but we’ve already accepted Captain America as our Lord and Savior.”

“Very funny, Barton,” Coulson said. “Is Maria there?”

“Yeah, the whole gang’s in the living room. They’ve been taking turns with Thor’s hammer.” Clint grinned at the man standing behind Coulson, wearing a dark suit and an unsure look on his face. “Hey, you. Long time no see.”

“Hello,” said Bakshi uncertainly.

“With me, Sunil,” Coulson said dryly.

Bakshi trailed after him and so did Clint, still smiling. If Coulson didn’t want him to talk to Bakshi, he shouldn’t have brought him along.

“So how’s SHIELD treating you?”

“Good,” Bakshi answered, eyeing Coulson’s back warily, caught between his handler’s obvious displeasure and Clint’s unrelenting attention. “I… I’ve just been moved to active duty.”

It was nothing Clint didn’t already know. He and Bakshi still talked on the phone at least once every week. Clint had introduced him to phone sex, which had made for a few pleasant evenings. Bakshi hardly ever hesitated anymore when Clint told him how to touch himself.

“I can see that,” Clint said. “Next time you’re in New York, remind me, I found this great hole-in-the-wall place. Indian food. You like Indian, right? I think it was in Bobbi’s file.”

“I do,” Bakshi murmured.

He held himself even tenser when they reached the main room, with the Avengers all laughing together. A few glances flew their way when Coulson came in; he answered most of them with a reassuring nod, but quirked an eyebrow at Hill and Potts, who instantly put their flutes down to get up.

“Stay here,” Coulson told Bakshi reluctantly. He gave Clint a warning glance, but didn’t actually say anything. Clint just smiled back.

Steve was closest to them, sitting in the loveseat; his eyes followed Coulson across the room, then came back up at them. Ever polite, he held out his hand to Bakshi. “Hi,” he said, “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. Steve Rogers.”

Bakshi shook his hand with wide eyes—he probably hadn’t expected this moment to happen at any point in his life. Clint laughed a little under his breath. Steve didn’t pay attention to it—a lot of people looked like this when they first met him, and he’d learned to graciously ignore it.

Clint nudged Bakshi from behind. “Hey, don’t freak out,” he smirked. “Steve has this effect on pretty much everyone who can see.”

Bakshi nodded, though he still looked a little like a deer in the headlights. Clint tugged him back into the shadows of the hallway, then put his hands on his shoulders and dug his thumbs hard into the muscle through the suit jacket; Bakshi winced but didn’t complain, exhaling shakily as Clint forced the worst of his tension of out him.

“You’re okay,” Clint said, releasing him with a smile. “Come here.” He cupped the back of his neck and drew him into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

He only released him when Coulson came back into the room. Coulson immediately glared at them and Bakshi stepped away from Clint, hastily wiping his mouth. Clint just smiled. They watched as Coulson said a few more things to a serious-looking Potts, still glancing at them once in a while.

“It’s good that you dropped that stupid accent,” Clint remarked out of the blue. “Getting to be yourself.”

Bakshi hadn’t relaxed at all but managed a brief, nervous smile. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

Clint grinned at him. “Nothing you haven’t earned.”

 

*

 

The ride back was even tenser than their usual.

Eventually, Coulson blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Bakshi looked up from his tablet. “Sir?”

“I had no idea Barton would be there. I thought he was still in Europe.”

Bakshi looked down again, though he was obviously pretending to work now. “I don’t mind.”

“Of course you do,” Coulson snapped.

Bakshi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, drawing himself tenser. Coulson sighed—he hadn’t wanted to make him even more jittery. He was very much aware that Bakshi’s obedience to him didn’t mean much in the face of his utter submission to Clint.

Coulson usually tried not to openly disapprove of Clint’s actions. It would have been quite hypocritical of him, and highly counterproductive; even now, his authority was no match for Clint’s hold over Bakshi. He still called regularly, and Coulson hadn’t been able to think of a valid reason to forbid Bakshi from answering the phone.

But he must be particularly tired today, because what he was about to say went against Clint’s every instructions, and he didn’t even mind—he even found some kind of vengeful pleasure at the thought that he might ruin it all.

“What he did to you,” he declared, “was wrong.”

Bakshi went very still.

“Regardless of what either of us allowed in the past,” Coulson went on. “Regardless of the circumstances. It was _wrong,_ and I’m sorry.”

He’d sat on these words for so long; now that he’d finally dropped them, he quite certainly expected some kind of reaction, but not Bakshi’s quiet, “I know.”

Coulson stared at him.

“You _know?”_

Bakshi looked up at him. He was a little calmer, but his dark eyes still had that frazzled edge. “I was Whitehall’s right hand,” he reminded him, with a hollow hint of his old defiance in his voice. “I know what process I’ve been put through. It doesn’t matter.”

“How can it not _matter?”_

“Because it worked anyway,” Bakshi said simply. “It’s not about right or wrong. It’s about life or death. What Clint Barton did was give me a choice.”

His tone was a strange mix of shame and tiredness. “As it turns out, I wanted to live. The rest isn’t really relevant.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's totally a happy ending! Right?


End file.
